


a drop in your ocean

by lovelyskies



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Psychological Horror, yes I am still working on curiously yours don't @ me !!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyskies/pseuds/lovelyskies
Summary: The troll is optimistic at heart, having yet to be hit a blow even the purest life can suffer and believes Snufkin to love him the same. Sometimes Moomin takes pride in knowing his beloved more than any creature in the valley, other times he sees the truth. The truth that his love is unrequited.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 65
Kudos: 94





	1. all you had to do was stay

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags; don't take them lightly. Using your understanding of your mental health, make the decision that is right from you. Thank you for staying safe!
> 
> tw: injury, death

There are two recurring dreams.

_One_. No counting sheep, no meditation, no calm thoughts could prepare him for sleep. This dream that he could not sleep came often, nearly every night.

_Two_. This dream did not come often. The circumstances would differ, but the narrative would remain the same. He would be left behind. Forgotten. Whether it was a day trip to the Lonely Mountains or an invitation to a party – he would be overlooked completely. Invisible, almost.

Given his psyche is far too sanguinary for any true nightmare, these were the only two dreams the young Moomin could have. If it weren’t one of the two, he wouldn’t dream - only succumb in darkness until the morning hours.

Tonight, it appears option one is the victor.

There’s a distinct taste of vomit in the back of his mouth. He wants to get up and brush his teeth for what will be the fifth time that night. There is also the pressure in his bladder begging notice. But he sensed that if he were to move, even slightly, whatever chance he has of falling asleep will be lost forever. So, he remains laying on his back – the air a little too warm, the pillows being a little too stiff, and the silence being far too uncomfortable.

He can hear someone running water down the hall and it reminds him of his bladder. With a heavy sigh, he gives in to his body’s pleas. After using the restroom and washing his paws thoroughly, Moomin walks down the staircase without even a creak. He knows every spot the wood would groan with the pressure of his weight, having snuck down countless times during his childhood. After retrieving a small glass of cool milk, he decides a walk onto the patio would aid in the sleeping process. There’s a green triangle of fabric just visible, just across the bridge. It billows in the breeze like a small sail.

Perhaps the only person other than he awake in Moominvalley is the stripe of a man sitting at his campsite. It’s not that he couldn’t sleep, it’s just he doesn’t find it necessary. Earlier that afternoon, Snufkin had been fishing in the creek when a rather large trout had broken his line. Moomin had been there, of course (for he always cancels plans to be alone with the other). They talked about everything and nothing all the same. Snufkin had mostly replied with shrugs or monosyllables, leaving his friend to keep the conversation afloat. The only time he had been vocal was when his line snapped, voicing a small clock of disapproval and a soft “ _ah, well_.” Moomin offered to take his friend to the beach the following day, as consolation. He’d agreed. And by the looks of it, Snufkin is planning on fishing. 

Moomin loves him.

The troll is optimistic at heart, having yet to be hit a blow even the purest life can suffer and believes Snufkin to love him the same. Sometimes Moomin takes pride in knowing his beloved more than any creature in the valley, other times he sees the truth. The truth that his love is unrequited.

He’ll go through periods of despair, sometimes becoming physically ill when he sees no hope of the dream of love coming to fruition. He’ll be mad at himself for putting his beloved’s desires before his own time and time again. But then comes the idea that he could win Snufkin over, with time. And perhaps Snufkin does love him, just has a funny way of showing it.

_Funny._ But Moomin never laughs. 

Snufkin sets down his rod, pouring the pitcher of water onto the fire. When he enters his tent, he shuts his eyes and falls asleep like a man on an anesthesia drip.

He never dreamt.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin squints at the morning sun’s sudden brightness. The sense of space opens around him after the stifling confines of the tent.

Sitting on the corner of the Moominhouse is a clothesline made from rope and lumber, hanging from it is a royal red rug long forgotten in the cellar. Moomin takes a swing, whipping the fabric with a spring steel beater. A cloud of brown soot fumes like a dust storm. 

Mama sits in a rocking chair nearby, humming some tune she heard some time ago while working on her quilt. ‘ _A quilt fit for Moomins!’_ Papa had described it upon seeing the sketch. (He had a tendency of making the ordinary extraordinary). It would be a family tree, their names etched in the leaves. There will be space for her son to add on, whenever that time may come.

Moomin pauses mid-swing when he sees a familiar tint of green approach. Although his eyes are laced with dust, he can make out the color from miles away. _“Snufkin!”_ he cries excitedly, dropping the beater without a second thought.

Snufkin tips his hat, saying hello. Seeing that as unsatisfactory, Moomin runs into his embrace and lifts him the air. Snufkin chokes, half from the dust and half from the blow, and taps his back to urge him down. Moomin chuckles embarrassed, muttering a soft apology. Snufkin wraps his arms around the troll, squeezing softly. “No need to apologize,” he whispers with a smile.

Moomin blushes harder with patches of goosebumps sending down his spine. He returns the second hug.

“Hello, dears.” Mama approaches with a picnic basket looped around her forearm. Moomin jumps away as if caught stealing a fresh pie from the windowsill. “Be careful,” she hums lowly, that being her only pitch, “It’s been raining quite a bit.”

Neither feels the need to worry. It is like this every spring. Rain is plentiful, flowers bloom, it’s what one is to expect. They take it as a mother’s worry, something that couldn’t be helped.

Moomin takes the offered basket, opting out of the umbrella. “Snufkin has one,” he says, knowing full well he does not.

She rubs the back of her son’s ears, chuckling when it makes his feet tap and eyes flutter. He’d always had that habit. And Mama always had the habit of finding it enduring.

They kiss as Moomin’s do, rubbing their snouts together, and say their ‘ _I love you’s.’_ Mama had said hers twice, to which Moomin paid no mind.

Snufkin had turned to look at the mountains, feeling out-of-place when they began their ritual. He’s never received an ‘ _I_ _love you’_ and wonders if he ever would.

A grey cloud appears over the tip of the mountain, lost in the sea of blue.

_They are on their way, they are leaving, they are gone._

The two venture into the forest in an unmethodical manner with no sense of time. Snufkin is a daydreamer who likes to hum to himself, staring at the treetops and losing his sense of being. He glimpses the tips of a grey stone tower of a church, the chipped fountains laid hidden in courtyards. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine mother birds returning to their eggs, children hoop trundling outside their home. Moomin once said he looked like a doll, propped in the window, staring at the world passing by. For some reason, he never forgot that. Snufkin can sense the watchful presence, noting every curve of his lips, raising of his brows, but decides better than to acknowledge it.

Moomin, on the other hand, feels as if he’s running inside in an impetuous flight – heart-pounding itself into a blur as he stares at the doll’s plastered face. _What is he thinking? Is he thinking of me?_ A vine grows on some of the large roots, thin green coils perch with tiny pink flowers. They latch onto Moomin’s foot like a hand, yanking him to the ground. He squeals as he loses his balance and topples over the large root.

Snufkin glances back, his face showing emotion for the first time that day. He hurries to help heave his friend and regain his balance, dropping his bag and pole.

“That was just _swell_ ,” Moomin pouts, wiping off the debris from his legs.

“ _Applesauce_!” Snufkin gasps his version of a curse and places his hands on his hips. “And don’t try to bluff me; that was a nasty fall. How are your knees?”

Moomin peers over his belly to see his knees scraped, dirtied brown and red. “They’re fine. I’m sure of it.” He can feel his heart pound from the wound, his blood feeling too thick for his veins. He does not want to cry, desperately not wanting the tears to fall, wanting to be strong for his brave friend. _No, I will not cry… I will not. Not in front of Snufkin. I will be brave. I am brave._

“Come then, let’s flush out your wound. I’m sure a creek with some fresh water is nearby.” Snufkin loops his arms around him, pulling in the direction of the route.

Moomin cries softly, fully prepared for his legs to break with the next step. But they don’t.

“We must be careful. The land is slick from the rain.” Snufkin bends over to retrieve his belongings, keeping one hand looped around the other. 

The water sparkles, not a spot murky although there is mud along the bottom. Reeds flap, growing near the bank and trees overhang with the grass bending with the wind.

“It’s not that cold, you lug.” Snufkin has his feet in the water, his pants rolled up to the ankle, and tends to Moomin’s wound. The troll had nearly kicked his leg straight into the lad’s face when it broke the glassy surface.

The gentle water trickles, occasionally splashing over the algae-slick rocks as Moomin sits on a sun-warmed rock, watching Snufkin flush out the mud and dried-blood trapped in his knees. He can smell the wet earth, blooming wildflowers, and rose hips. When he opens his eyes, he sees dragonflies whirling through the reeds and a turtle sunning itself on a log.

“Let me get a hankie to wrap them.” Snufkin, satisfied, huffs a quick breath before the water slurps and splashes with his walking.

“No!” Moomin cries, throwing a handout, not wanting Snufkin to leave. _Don’t go, don’t go, don’t –_ “I, uh, don’t need that! It’s nothing, really,” he quickly fixes. 

Snufkin teeters, “I saw your face. You were going to pass out from the sight of blood. Let me?”

Moomin smiles wearily, eased to see him not question his little outburst. “If you insist.”

They cross the stream when he’s all bandaged up, jumping from rock to rock. Moomin winces when his weight meets his legs but manages across without slipping. Moomin grabs a hold of Snufkin’s forearm upon jumping back on dry land, his heart leaping from his chest. He keeps it there for the remainder of the journey.

The rough waves froth and crash into the shore. Along the cliffside are head-sized stones embedded in the walls – smooth, a greyish blue. Moomin plays hopscotch with the sand, careful of the burrs hiding in the sea oats. (They are a pain to pull out his fur). Snufkin slips out his boots and socks upon reaching the harder sand, no longer walking on the sinking clouds and plops his bag down. Moomin sets off in a run, laughing and throwing his hands about. The hot wind blows on his face, the harsh scent of salt overpowering his nose.

“ _Moomintroll_ !” Snufkin cups his hands and calls out, “ _Careful or you’ll get an infection!"_

_Infection?_ Moomin thinks, what an odd thing to say. Shouldn’t he be more concerned about him falling, hitting his head, and being knocked unconscious? Mother always said this sort of thing when he ran. 

His feet break the water’s surface, its waves frothing and crashing. Then comes the sting. The birds take flight, their wings flapping as the shrieking of a young troll echoes the landscape. “That _burns!”_ Moomin cries, tumbling backward. 

Snufkin bites back an ‘ _I told you so’_ and a snicker. “You may have to settle for dipping your paws,” he settles. 

Moomin scoffs, “But what’s the point of going to the ocean if not to swim?”

“Plenty reasons.” Snufkin lifts his head and feels the wind picking up. “Like admiring. And fishing.”

“Please no more fishing,” Moomin grumbles. “The ocean is meant for swimming. If I can’t swim you can take my place.”

“It’s a well-known fact us mumriks can’t swim.” Snufkin sets off down in the opposite direction, feeling the wet sand ooze between his toes. Moomin stumbles to keep up. “Her singing calls us into her depths, to drown us in her magnificence. Cruel isn’t it?”

“Is this because Papa gave you that shark tooth?” Moomin sees through the needless allegories. Snufkin’s stories are different from his fathers in the fact they actually occurred, but he had a way of romanticizing the ordain.

Snufkin chuckles, “Partially.” The necklace is all he has linking him to his father, to his family. How wrong is it for him to fill in the cracks? 

A roll of thunder interrupts all thoughts. Snufkin peers over the other, seeing the grey cloud looming closer. “I should have brought that umbrella,” Moomin mutters, mostly to himself. 

Moomin settles for seashell picking. It’s a task his friend Snorkmadien would do. A challenge, more like. Spend the day finding the perfect shell, one without cracks or imperfections, and give it to a loved one. Moomin never thought much of it, but now realizes what a daunting task it can be. How is he supposed to find something that could mirror the magnificence of his friend? He finally decides that there is no shell that would do him justice (after hours of searching). It’ll be better just to find the prettiest. 

Snufkin spent the day living in his mind. He’d occasionally bend over to retrieve a smooth rock, feeling its surface before skipping it into the ocean. It never worked too well, sinking within the first jump. He played his harmonica once, but just as quickly put it away. ‘ _No song could compare to her’s,’_ he had said, eyes looking outward to the horizon. He scoffed at himself, offended that he had pulled out his instrument in the first place. 

Moomin found it to be funny. The ocean didn’t have feelings, what did it matter? 

By the time dusk had fallen, Moomin had narrowed it down to three shells: a moon snail shell, a rose petal tellin, and a prickly cockle - none of which were cracked. He held out both paws - Snufkin admired his wares diligently until picking the first of the bunch. Moomin’s ears wiggled, his tail whipped, as he watched Snufkin turn over the shell once, twice, before stuffing it inside his overcoat. 

Just as soon as the lamp of stars flickers into existence, dark clouds canopy their light. The curve of the world darkens, the moon pulling into the sky. Raindrops pit the sand one by one. The couple runs back to their sanctuary, being half a mile away. They laugh as the cool wind and rain splatters on their face, sand kicking from their heels. Snufkin sets up his tent in record time and the two hurry inside, pulling the flap to shield themselves from the brewing storm. Moomin catches his breath, chest rising and falling rapidly. Snufkin does the same, occasionally they exchange a shared laugh or two. 

They have dinner of cold canned soup and some water from a canteen. Snufkin sets the bowls outside when complete, for them to get a proper washing. When the flap zips back up, silence ensues. Only the patter of rain, distant rolling of waves fills the air. Moomin watches his friend, a sudden almost tearful urgency hits him. If only he could reach out, touch his face, feel his paws on his own. This child-like feeling of frustration, knowing that he would never obtain what he desired, consumes him. He attempts to focus on the sounds, the smells, anything to break him from this painful yearning in its extremity.

Snufkin sees the pain in his eyes. He’d seen this as of late - it came when they would spend any extended amount of time together. He never spoke of it.

“Do you…” Moomin begins, not finishing.

“Hm?” Snufkin queries with a hum. 

“Never mind.” He shakes his head, pushing away the thought. 

“I wasn’t blessed a mind-reader.” Snufkin works at his bag, to find something to occupy his hands. And yet, it wouldn’t take a psychic to see the pain he’s in, the pain he’s _been_ in. Snufkin doesn’t like to pry, is all.

“I know,” he affirms, “it’s not right of me to expect as much.”

No reply. Snufkin’s paw finds his compass. Suppose that’s enough distraction.

“Do you feel the same way I do?” he blurts.

A beat. Snufkin clicks the compass open, then closed, continuing the cycle. 

“You don’t, do you?” Moomin’s voice falters.

Snufkin surmises, “I am not aware of your feelings or thoughts, Moomin.”

“You’re not?” he quips, almost sarcastically. 

Moomin’s voice had risen toward the end, sounding angry. This startles the other. _Moomin never raises his voice._ “I suppose I am somewhat,” he professes. “You can be easy to read.”

“So you enjoy playing with my heart, is it?” Moomin roars, a fist forming.

“This is coming out of nowhere,” he utters, “Whose put these thoughts in your head?” Snufkin decides the compass has served its purpose, stuffing it back in the back. 

“It _isn’t_ out of nowhere, I’m standing up for myself! _For once!_ I’ve changed _so much_ for you! And I hate that.” He starts crying, the struggle not to overpower the need. He wipes the tears away with the heel of his paw.

Snufkin blinks, surprised to see the sudden outburst. “I don’t see what the trouble is,” he replies honestly. 

“You take advantage of me!” Moomin cries out, voice hiccupping. “Of our friendship. You come and go as you please. I understand your need to be alone, but what about me? Do my feelings not matter?”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did. You do every time you leave,” he sniffles. “I don’t think I have it in me to forgive you.”

A sigh. _This conversation again?_ “I wasn’t asking for your forgiveness. And I wasn’t offering an apology. I’m under no obligation to stay,” he repeats as if scripted. 

“Then leave!” Moomin yells. “Quit feeling guilty for me and _leave!_ Let me get over you. _”_ He unzips the flap and ventures into the dusk.

“ _Moomintroll_!” Snufkin scoffs, getting onto his knees and peering outside the tent. “What are you doing?! The storm -!”

“ _I hate myself for loving you!”_ Moomin screams, louder than the thunder above. _When you clearly don’t care for me._ He keeps the last bit to himself, biting back the venom that threatens to spew. 

There. It had been said. The truth is out and thus comes the heartbreak. What else is there to do? Moomin hadn’t planned this far ahead, in his fully-baked confession. And he didn’t need to; his body acted in second nature. _Run._ Like Snufkin had all those years, continues to do so. _Run away._

Snufkin’s heart is struck by pure electricity. A hattifattener had hit him, surely, its voltage shooting from his spine to his toes. The shock makes every hair on his body stand, his eyes jitter.

_Love._ Moomintroll loved him. This stuns him, his body freezing. He stays listening, frightened – even though he couldn’t say what. _Moomin had left._ His mind registers this fact. _I must do something. I need to move._ His legs rise in an excruciatingly methodical manner as if there were no worries. As if his friend hadn’t sprinted into the forest in the middle of a thunderstorm.

He stumbles out of the tent, nearly falling flat on his face in the sand that trembles underneath his feet. “M-Moomin…” he whispers, head-turning every which way. His pupils enlarge, adjusting to the dimness. Everything looks tan after the sun sets. But to Moomin, everything would be nearing black.

_The prints - follow the prints._

Lighting strikes.

Moomin runs, arms flailing. He doesn’t care where he ends up. Only the occasion flash completely lighting the path. Limbs of the trees stab him as he passes by, the twigs underneath his feet snap. He wants to lash out, to hit Snufkin, pummel in his shoulders. But what good would that do? He needs to get away, to _move on._

This is what Snufkin does, isn’t it? When something infeasible arises, he leaves. It’s what Moomin should have done long ago, to save him from years of torment. At least he’d be free now. He wouldn’t have to look in Snufkin’s eyes and feel his heart flutter, to dream of a life shared together. 

The ocean comes in the forest. The sound of waves echoes through the treetops. Trees crack like lightning, the ground rumbles like thunder.

A surge front of debris comes hurling down the slope.

Moomin doesn’t see the boulder that strikes him.

_Screaming. All he can hear is screaming._ Snufkin’s feet can’t move, sinking into the mud. He had heard it too, the forest cracking. _A mudslide._ The screaming fills him with panic – Moomin is out there, in darkness, in terrible pain. Snufkin can’t think of what to do, how to make it better. _Why can’t he move?_

_The screaming ought to be stopping now, instantly, but it wasn’t. He couldn’t stop._

“ _Moomin?_ ” Snufkin keeps calling. “ _Moomin?!_ ” It’s hard to hear anything over the screams, which refused to stop. His feet carry him deep into the forest, with the sound of his voice guiding him until he meets a river of debris.

The screaming diminishes abruptly like he took a gasp of air. Except they don’t start back up again, the silence more frightening than the screams. 

Snufkin claws his way through the fallen branches, pushing over every rock. “ _Moomin! Where are you?!”_

A pearl white tail sticks out from the rubble.

His body remains perfectly still.


	2. death won’t let me say goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which snufkin finally dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my beta as always ♥
> 
> tw: graphic depiction of death, injury, bugs, medical procedures

Moomin’s smile would change everything - so loving, so open. And that laughter of his, it was infectious. He would say something so obviously unfunny, yet others would still join in, though they couldn’t say why.

Small bundles of fur, looking like cotton, stick on fallen boughs. A streak of blood follows the troll’s descent in the rubble. The body laying there isn’t Moomin, there’s no signature laugh, smile. 

Snufkin’s bare feet had cemented themselves to the ground, he hadn’t the time to latch on his boots or retrieve his belongings from the shore. His ginger hair, now blackened with mist, is plastered onto either cheek. He stands here, shivering, as helplessly as a mutt caught in the rain. 

Thunder booms. Four seconds pass then comes the lightning. 

Everything breaks into its elemental form as the body flashes into view. Distantly he feels the danger, the grief, but it unwraps itself from the root of his being. It floats off, like a tumbleweed in the wind. Snufkin’s feet glide him down the slope in some sort of second-nature. It isn’t far, perhaps ten feet. It wasn’t the fall that killed the troll. Evidently, given the large boulder sitting on top of his chest. One by one, the rocks are pushed off until one large boulder is left. One push, it doesn’t budge. He puts his entire body against the rock, pushing, straining, with his entire will. Finally, it rolls off him - planting itself in the sunken land with a  _ thud _ . Snufkin’s chest heaves as he stares at his friend laying there, frozen. His chest is oddly sunken. “Does it hurt?” he asks softly. 

No answer. He searches the face but it gives no sign. 

Snufkin falls on his knees abruptly, mud splashes upon his dress, trousers, a few droplets land on his cheeks. “I thought about what you said.” His hand travels from the crook of Moomin’s neck to his stomach. “I decided to stay this winter.” He brings his hand back up, against the fur. “I’ll never leave you again. But that means you have to stay.” 

In the days that follow, Snufkin’s eyes refuse to see him for what he is,  _ a body.  _ He only ventures afar to retrieve berries, twigs, anything of nutrition for his friend. Moomintroll, ever the kind, always refused the gesture. 

Snufkin could’ve slept. He wanted to. But if he were it would take him away from the forest, away from Moomin. Holding his decaying body made him feel like he was holding a torch that casts a halo of light around him. The future lays in the darkness beyond, but the flame in his arms makes him blind.

The potent smell, perhaps garbage, perhaps something worse, fills the forest in the following days. The wind carries the odor to towns and neighbors nearby. The Police Inspector assigned to rid the stench struggles to contain her nausea as she ventures deep into the brush. She wears spectacles that make her eyes look especially round - her movements are tentative, as if the ground may give way beneath her leather boots at any time. 

Snufkin heard her footsteps seconds before she approached. They pause. The sight, smell of the blood and decaying flesh - it proves too much for the Inspector. She runs about five feet, blundering into some bushes before she vomits everything in her stomach. There were things, things she’d never seen before and they ran through her mind. It wouldn’t stop, she could see the dried blood even with her eyes closed; suddenly she envisioned the fall, and maybe that rock had something to do with it? It plays in her mind over and over again, yet the body has no distinct appearance. She hadn’t the time to take it in. She gropes blindly for something to help her up, her hand finding a tree limb.

_ Oh, god _ . 

She hadn’t expected to recognize the body. After all, there was no missing person report. No clues as to what or who the body could belong to. But she doesn’t need it, for it’s painfully obvious. It’s the Moomin family’s son.  _ And someone else?  _ The need to vomit hits her again, but she holds it down. There is work to do. Isn’t that the duty of a Police Inspector? To do the impossible? To rid the valley of its imperfections? 

The footsteps begin again. She bends down and feels the Moomin’s paw - cold, like clay. Her eyes refuse to see him any longer. He was glass, ice, or something transparent.  _ Invisible. _ Snufkin peers up, blinking, and sees the blue uniform. She gasps, clearly not expecting him to be alive. Her arm wraps around his nape, yanking him to his toes. 

“No, No,” he tries to scream, too muffled to be heard. His legs kick back against her knees, but she is obviously stronger, and he can’t get a grip on anything. The smell seeps through his skin, clings to his clothes. “No! Don’t leave me!” He watches in horror and Moomin becomes smaller and smaller, the Keeper taking him back to wherever it may be.  _ “You can’t! You can’t leave me!”  _

His eyes stay glued on that white figure in the distance, he doesn’t blink, never wanting the last view to truly be the last. But it happens. And he never sees him again. 

Snufkin is stripped of his clothes. His eyes are glazed, unfazed. She grimaces when she sees his body. There are ticks, everywhere. Perhaps a dozen, clinging to their host with their bellies full. She will get her tweezers in a moment’s time, but now he needs to be washed. Outside, of course.

The hose blasts cold water onto his fur. She scrubs hard, over and over again. She cries then. She had been given the time to breathe, and she took it. The scrubbing ensues. The body won’t leave her mind. She scrubs harder.  _ His chest, why had it been flat? _ She yanks him around, scrubbing his back.  _ Moomins _ . Dear god, their son had died. How is she supposed to tell them? She rings her fingers into his coarse hair, pulling out the knots. Soap falls into his eyes, it burns, but he doesn’t blink. 

Her hand pulls out, she stares at her empty palm. There is no more. She used an entire bar.

She hoses the mumrik off one last time before returning inside the jailhouse to get her tweezers, pausing to call the local doctor. She didn’t call the Moomins,  _ not yet.  _

“Have you no shoes?” This is the first thing she said to him after plucking every parasite off him. The answer is obvious, but she felt the silence filling the building too empty. Snufkin peers down to his bare feet that stand on the tile. His mind registers the question, but he can’t speak. She sighs, he hadn’t even owned clothes. He can’t wear that rag he came in with, it needed to be burned. The smell would never come out. 

Knitting is easy to hear, just another thing she does well. There’s no panic-inducing race to the finish line. She pulls out a dress from her office drawer. She had the intention of using the dress for her niece. It’s a pullover, A-frame, and cream in color - it has two deep pockets on either side. She ran out of the fabric by the time she had gotten to the cuffs so she used what pink linen she had left on the shelf to make a collar and finish the sleeves. “Lift your arms,” she instructs. He looks up dumbly. She  _ tsks _ , shoving the thing down on him anyway. The dress is large enough that Snufkin’s arms can elbow their way out of the sleeve. Suppose hemulens are larger than scrawny mumriks. “There,” she says, satisfied. It had meant to be a summer dress, coming down to the ankles, but it fell onto his ankles. He would get it dirty in no time, she presumed. A shame. “Don’t go on standing like this. Sit.” 

“I promised I wouldn’t leave him, that’s what I intend to do,” he croaked for the first time in hours. His hand involuntarily went to his hat to tip, which wasn’t there. “Well, good day. Cheerio.” 

She grabbed his shoulder softly, not like the way she had seized him earlier. “I need you to sit. The doctor will be here shortly. He’s going to check you,” she spoke loudly, slowly, as if she were speaking to a small child. 

Doctor? What for? First a bath, which he loathes, now a doctor? Could the day get any worse? “No thank you. I shall be on my way.” The grip tightens as he attempts to turn once more. Politeness is out the door, at this point. “I have made a promise. I attend to seek it out. If you will  _ please. _ ” 

She sighs. Although being a Police Inspector, she hates enforcing the rules. She gets on her knees as if that would make the process any easier. “I have a tough task. I have to call the Moomin family and tell them their son is dead. You have to say here until they arrive. I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

Snufkin snarls his fangs at the word  _ dead _ . He bites her hand, tasting a gush of metallic in his mouth. The Inspector screams, more in shock than pain, and falls on her bottom. Snufkin breaks for it, he has to get back to Moomin, he can’t leave him, he can’t -

“Well, hullo there! Where are you off to in such a hurry?” A hairy man swings open the door to meet his frazzled patient. He wears a large white jacket with lollipops sticking out of every pocket and carries a black case. 

“Careful, he’s a biter.” She lifts her injured hand, showing him the mark. 

“So I see” he replies, acting like he’s deep in thought. “I hadn’t the sense to bring my oven mitts.” It’s clear he mostly works with small children, given his tone. And Snufkin isn’t in the mood to be patronized. His patient snarls again, this time showing off his bloodied fangs. 

“He’s wanting to be with his friend,” the Inspector says as she gets up, rubbing at her back. 

The doctor’s smile fades. ‘ _ That friend?’  _ his worried eyes convey. The friend she spoke of over the phone, the friend whose body now lays alone. 

She nods.

His heart tightens. Suppose no one in the valley is prepared to deal with this type of situation. “I’ll flush your wound with some peroxide in a moment. But you, you’re coming with me.” He kicks the door shut behind him and grabs the lad’s arm, dragging him to the cell. Snufkin kicks, screams, anything he can do to get out of his grip. The Inspector watches as he is tossed into the cell, the door slamming shut. Why hadn’t she thought of that? 

Snufkin’s hands grab a hold of the chilled steel bars. “I need to be with him! What don’t you understand?” The last bit comes out pitifully. He falls to the floor, his bruised knees banging on the tile. 

The doctor grabs the keys from above the desk and locks himself and his patient inside after helping the Inspector with her own injury. He sets his black case on the floor and rummages through its belongings. “Take this. It will help with your nerves.” 

Snufkin’s chin is lifted, his mouth forcefully open. One, two pills popped in his mouth. He shakes his head forcefully, to fight whatever drugs he’s trying to force into his system. A splash of liquid waterfalls into his mouth, nearly making him gag. Finally, the doctor releases him once he swallows. 

“Did I mention the ticks?”

“Yes,” he replies, pulling something from his case. “With just a little exchange of trouble, he’ll be back to tip-top shape in no time!” He pulls a syringe out, raising it high in the air until the sun from the window strikes its glass barrel. 

“Good, good,” she mumbles. She can feel the phone presence from across the room. It would be dusk in about five or so hours. The family would need time to retrieve the body, then take it home. It sickens her stomach to even think about it. 

Snufkin starts to calm down. His heart had been racing, adrenaline fueling his body. So much so he had trembled with it. But now, all that is starting to ease. Everything is light, and he feels a bit sleepy. The doctor pulls out a small glass bottle, Snufkin reads the label - PROTOSIL. The liquid inside is deep red. Like blood. Moomin’s blood. “Moomin…” he mumbles, barely able to feel his lips move. He needed help, not Snufkin. “His knees, they need to be tapped.” He thinks back to the cloth tied around his swollen knee - it must feel hot, tight. The infection would need to be drained. 

The doctor keeps his eyes focused as he slowly lifts the end of the syringe, measuring the exact amount of antibacterial. Once reaching the mark, he seizes, tapping on the glass to balance out the liquid. 

“Moomin,” Snufkin repeats the name to himself, “don’t you know?” He watches the Inspector’s hand trembling with the dial. She would stick her nail in the number slot, bringing it back to the finger stop. But then came the last number, and she would freeze. This is her fourth attempt. If Snufkin focuses, he can hear the humming of the dial-up. It seems she gained the courage, dialing faster than she had before.“I love you too.” 

Snufkin feels a choke in his throat - the patient can’t deny sleep any longer, it pulls him under. When the doctor speaks again, he isn’t sure whether to expect him to hear, “You’re going to hit all sixes, my lad.” 

The needle stabs his arm, the Moomins pick up the phone.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The sun had lowered on Moominvalley, caramelizing the color of things. Snufkin arrives at the get-together merely half an hour late (which is decent, given his past timing). Moomin greets him with wine and leads the way to the open courtyard with musicians playing behind the marble fountain. Some chatted where they stood, others snuck to the benches to hold private conversations. 

Snufkin turns to face Moomin. “Joining your friends?” He follows the line of sight to see Snorkmadien laughing at something Little My had said, their breath fogging in the chill air. 

“What?” Moomin looks straight at Snufkin, face clean of thoughts. “No, I’d rather spend my time with you.” Snufkin tenses, his words spinning in his head. The thoughts fit like fragments of a mirror, slowly piecing itself. Moomin coughs on his next intake of wine, realizing what he had said. “I-If that’s alright with you?” 

Snufkin takes a sharp inhale and nods, forcing a confirming smile. Guests mill around them, which didn’t help matters to calm one’s self. People would smile when they see him, not out of the goodness of their heart, but it is what is expected of them. Snufkin attempts the same. 

Moomin clicks his tongue, seeing the anxiety drag over him. “I tell you what,” he begins, taking the glass from his paws, “I’ll escort you out of here.” His heels spin, walking back the way they had entered. 

Snufkin’s hand remained in the air where it had with the glass as he stood woodenly. For a few uncertain moments, he can’t force himself to move. 

“Well then,” Moomin calls, covering himself with a blanket, “coming, are you?” Snufkin’s glittering eyes meet his, the sharp eclipse of the moon silhouetting his figure. 

They walk swiftly down the path.  _ Their  _ path. The path they use to hide out on warm summer nights, to let their thoughts wash away with the tide. Moomin steals sidelong looks at him and it seems he was seasick before they had even reached the boat. Their silence breaks when Moomin helps Snufkin into the boat. 

“Thank you,” Snufkin says as he takes the troll’s extended hand to step inside the rocking boat. 

The sight of Snufkin shakes him - the fuzz on his face ruffling. He wouldn’t be able to think straight if he continued to look like that, to speak like that. Whatever he sees in his eyes loosens his hands, embarrassed that his hands still rested on his, thumb gently pressing. “Of course,” Moomin mumbles, quickly snatching the paddles to cover his humiliation. 

Snufkin listens to the gentle slap of water against the small boat. Moomin had long stopped paddling, letting the boat guide itself in the stream. The light lines Snufkin’s fingers with fire as he brings the harmonica to his lips. The beauty of the harmonica is its simplicity. It only has one voice, an unconscious melody. 

Moomin’s eyes slip shut. The pressure of the song is too strong - he didn’t want to become distracted. Snufkin feels the music cage behind his teeth. The sensation is low and alive in his mouth. Moomin wishes that it wasn’t the melody touching his lips, rather, himself. Moomin had set a hook into Snufkin’s heart. This attraction the troll keeps hidden in his thoughts, in his journal. He wishes he could burn it. So it would become a tunnel of flame, then diminishing into ash. The secret inside himself, it would be gone. And he’d be able to move on. Yet he doesn’t want this love to die. 

A few snowflakes swirl in the wind and vanish. Snufkin shutters, making a sour note in the process. Moomin quickly removes the blanket looped across his shoulder and places it on his. Snufkin tilts his head slightly at this, smiling, before pulling the fabric close to his chest. 

The boat titters as Moomin wends his way back to the bench. He straightens suddenly with the weight of Snufkin’s head on his shoulder. His heartbeat trembles in his throat. “Your...Your song,” Moomin pauses. How is it that he can spend hours writing about his friend but freezes on spot? “It reminds me of a ship,” he decides suddenly. 

“A ship?” Snufkin chuckles, “You slay me.” 

“I mean it true!” Moomin insists. “Your notes are like the rigging, the song is the mast. The melody lifts the sail.” 

Snufkin hums, letting the words echo in his mind. His compliments were always so well thought out, like paper lanterns cunningly made so that they could float in the air for a few minutes, before floating away. Tentative fingers grasp Moomin’s large paw, his fist opening to welcome the touch. Snufkin’s thumb rubs across the back as they listen to nothing, watching the darkness draw over. The clouds shade their eyes from the evening sun. 

“It’s not easy,” Snufkin hushes. He feels Moomin shift to look at him. “To want what you do.” 

Moomin’s heart tightens, so close it nearly snaps. “To give your heart?” He holds onto the paw in his as if cupping water. 

“It’s not an easy thing to give away,” he replies in a slow, fluid fashion. 

There’s a long pause.

“But,” Snufkin continues, “you’ve already given yours, haven’t you?”

Moomin laughs a little, his mouth forming a small, worried smile. In truth, the words caused fear and longing, to where they became indistinguishable. Yet, it gives him a sense of wildness, heat - and it sinks into him. Snufkin meets his gaze, and Moomin knows he must be assessing him like he does as the daylight falls into the night. His perception of the troll would shift in subtle ways over and over again. He could never settle on a label for their friendship but did they need one? 

Snufkin’s cheek slide against his. Then his lips touch the side of his face, his sealed eyelids. Moomin turns to nuzzle his snout against his pointed nose, then the spot where his jaw met his throat. Snufkin giggles from the touch of the softness titillate his chin hair. He wraps both hands around his snout to draw his head up. With the new angle, Snufkin’s lips find his. The feelings of the harmonica’s chords fill him once more as the kiss deepens. They savor the wine covering each other’s tongue, tasting much sweeter than it had in the glass. Snufkin’s free hand runs from his thick-furred chest to his snout, then rests. How could someone so soft burn his skin? Heat rises from his lungs like he had inhaled a strong herb from his pipe. It’s  _ intoxicating,  _ to put it mildly. 

Then, a rush of metallic hits Snufkin’s tongue. His brows furrow then smooth, without his eyelids opening. Odd. Tasted almost like… 

Snufkin pulls back, his paw rushing to his mouth. His thumb strokes over his lower lip.  _ Blood.  _

Moomin’s bright eyes become slits, blood runs down the sockets. His mouth opens to scream, but he doesn’t.  _ Why isn’t he screaming?!  _ A chorus of insects squirms their way up to his body to feast, their origin unknown. 

Snufkin jumps, the boat rocking violently. He takes a step back, then another, before plunging back first into the lake. Water splashes over his face, making his screams sound bubbly. As he sinks, his eyes stare up into the yellow light of the moon. It feels as if claws were griping around his neck as the darkness grows deeper and deeper. He screams, scratching and clawing at the darkness consuming him. The bright cameo of Moomin’s body in the distance shines in his eyes.

_ It’s a well-known fact us mumriks can’t swim. _

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The phone call takes place in the library, a low-lit room with inset shelves jammed with bound volumes. Only some were written by the father, the majority being how-to’s and cookbooks. One of the drawers had been pulled out with a scrolled map, pinned down with paper-weights. 

Papa stood, looking out the window when he heard the news. Roots dig into his body, the black branches spread like wildfire. The twigs puncture his lungs. 

His son is gone.

The Inspector sinks in the chair once she hangs up the line. The father hadn’t said anything, and what did she expect? She hears the heavy door shut, leaving the sleeping boy locked inside. The doctor strides into the room and says, “Your profession isn’t an easy one.” He stands beside her chair, feet planted. “Give me your hand.” Her wound is flushed and wrapped with gauze. “How are they going to transport the body?” 

She thinks, then speaks hesitantly, “I have a wheelbarrow in the shed.” 


	3. close your eyes to see the light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> intro to shadow moomin
> 
> tw: altered reality, funeral, grief in general

Snufkin wakes hours later in the cell’s bed, somnolent. He shifts his right leg from underneath the blanket, then the other. He sits on the edge of the metal frame, his bare feet against the cold tile. He blinks, bleary-eyed and dazed to find the inspector isn’t by the phone, the doctor isn’t kneeled at his side. A small bandage is wrapped around his forearm, where the shot was taken. Except he doesn’t feel any pain, he doesn’t feel much of anything. 

A fire crackles in the room outside his cell, transmitting a ripple of orange glow over the ceiling. He lets the flame hypnotize himself as the feeling of the medication lingers. 

He hears the door creak after what could have been five minutes, maybe forty. The sound brings him to his feet at once, the blanket pools to the floor like velvet. His head buzzes, black speckles dotting his eyesight. The footsteps don’t belong to the Inspector, they’re much too light. His hands slacken around the metal bars. He tries, “Moomintroll?”

The lantern’s light pulses toward his cell. Blink by blink, the owner of the light becomes clearer. When he sees who carries it, he pulls away from the bars. “Are you all right?” the voice speaks. Mymble’s daughter sets the feeble lantern down. Her cheeks radiant from the crips wind outside; she wears an indigo dress that sweeps to her feet, a fur coat hangs around her shoulder. She stares at his bruises, his bandage. Her skin crawls when she sees his small red marks where insects had made their home. He doesn’t look like her brother. If it weren’t for his deep brown eyes, she would assume it was someone else entirely. 

“Is _he_ all right?” Snufkin demands in reply.

Mymble flinches. “Do you believe that-” she breaks off. _That he is alive? Moomintroll?_

“Let me see him.” 

Leafless trees scratch their branches against the window. Her eyes find the fire; her gaze wouldn’t measure him, no more. Her heart can’t take the pain. She wishes she never came, never volunteered. But Snufkin is family. And this is what family is to do. “He’s going home,” her voice becomes uneven. A tear slips down her cheek. 

Snufkin sees her discomfort become unbearable. It looks as if someone digs a dagger deeper into her chest every minute she stays. “He has a right to stay sore at me. Suppose he doesn’t wish to see me.”

“He _can’t_ see you!” she bellows, covering her open sob with her hand. 

“It’s the same difference,” he replies, unfazed by her outburst. There’s something greater that calls his attention. Ever since he jumped on his feet, he felt lethargic. But now the fatigue hits him like a wave. A steady whisper echoes in his ears, but the voice doesn’t belong to Mymble. Snufkin’s knees buckle. He has to stop to rest on the bed, holding onto the frame. There are voices, several, holding conversations. It sounds like radio static, the signal fading in and out. 

“Snufkin?” Mymble asks, quickly retrieving the key where the Inspector had said it was. “What’s wrong?” With her heart thumping, she opens the steel door to find him frozen in terror. 

Thirty seconds and it passes. The bolt of pain in his head had been so immense, he thought someone had stabbed him, or perhaps he suffered a stroke. He doesn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he gasps. His mind whirls, body trembling. He can’t swallow enough times to keep the tears from blurring his vision. The pain recedes slightly, enough to where the jailhouse comes back into view from the black mist in his mind. 

The voices he could’ve sworn they belonged to Moomin.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Moominpappa’s back had sprained when he lifted the body into the wheelbarrel. The police inspector had offered her hand, but he would be damned if anyone were to touch his son. But he takes the offered blanket, to cover the sunken carcass.

That had been hours ago. He leaves without the red-headed counterpart he had come with, heading straight toward Moominhouse. His stomach feels sour, bloated. He looks nearly as yellow as his son does. Moominpapa can’t think how to respond to this. Every option laid out in front of him is unacceptable. His son is dead. Now what? _Now,_ as if there would be a life after this. Once he transports this wheelbarrow carrying the decaying body of his son to its final resting spot, what then? 

He rams the barrel against a stubborn root, it finally allows passage. 

Then it comes to him - _revenge_. 

He will step toward Snufkin, fiddling with his fishing line. He’d grab Snufkin’s hand to twist it, letting the pole drop to the earth. Would he scream? He’d hope. He hopes he screams as loud as Moomin surely did that night, crushed alive. His grip would dig into his forearm until it snaps. Snaps like his pencils would when his anger fumed. 

_Snufkin._ He wants to shout at him, slap him, take him by his shoulders and scream _You took my son._ Cause that’s what he did, isn’t it? But what good is that to do? Everyone is intent on failing him here, so much weaker than he anticipated. Nobody could bear to see the body. So here he is, hauling his son alone. Even Little My, the strongest of the family, couldn’t manage to rescue her brother, sending her elder sibling in place. While they all sobbed alone in their rooms, he had to clean up the imperfections. He’s simply doing the right thing. No one can find the strength within themselves to do what’s needed to be done, too weak to see the truth - _Moomin had been killed_. And there’s nothing they could do about it. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin’s body shivers as soon as he leaves the jailhouse as wind hisses through the trees. His bag lays outside the door alongside his boots. The light from the fireplace doesn’t penetrate past the doorway, making the task of tying his boots difficult. Mymble closes the door and stands beside her brother. 

“My shells,” Snufkin blurts, hands halting. 

“Your what?” Mymble repeats. Snufkin stands and turns his heel. “Where are you going?!” He ignores her pleas and goes back behind the building, to the metal trashcan. Mymble follows, her breath fogging in the air. “Oh, _god_.” The smell that rises when he lifts the lid is atrocious - it smells like something crawled in it and died. She pinches her nose and waves her hand to waft the smell.

Snufkin leans forward, half his body disappearing into the tin. He rummages for a minute, then reappears with something in his hands, no larger than his palm. 

“Close that dreaded thing already!” 

The tin shuts. Snufkin lets his hand rest on the metal top, feeling confused suddenly. When had Moomin given him these shells? He remembers being on the beach, fragments of their conversation, but other details remain fogged. The image of his confession in the tent is all too clear, but after that, it’s mingled. Suppose it didn’t go well. 

“You said he’s back at Moominhouse?” he asks. 

“I presume he’s on his way, yes. If not there already.” Mymble takes off her fur shawl and wraps it around the crook of his neck. “Moominpappa got a head start on us.” 

Snufkin tilts his head. What did Moominpappa have to do with this? 

“Of course, he had to travel a great distance more than I had. Since we’re at the halfway point.” She waves her hand, finding such details insignificant in the greater matter of things. “We should be heading back now.”

Snufkin retrieves his belongings, not before refolding his tent. His sister had done a messy job of it, having never slept in a tent in her life and hence, not knowing how to fold one. With the backpack swung across his shoulders, boots laced, they set off down the path with Mymble’s lantern lighting the way. 

They follow a wave-like path laid by Pappa, a small tunnel made from the wheel barrel. He took a long way round, to avoid the stream Moomin had injured his knee at. They decide to take the shortcut, Mymble lifting her dress to skip from rock to rock. Snufkin goes first and helps his sister by extending a hand, guiding her back to the earth. Then they continue their silent journey, the light from the valley as their northern star. 

“Mother should be here in a few days’ time,” Mymble says abruptly, Snufkin not too far behind. 

Snufkin straightens and stops in his step. “Why?” He looks at the back of her bun closely. 

Mymble looks back. “She’s coming for Little My.” He takes a step back, the wave of dizziness hitting him again. “She doesn’t want to be in that house,” she adds softly, “surrounded with reminders.” 

Snufkin would forget this conversation, Mymble’s words erasing in his mind like chalk on a chalkboard. “Oh,” he falters, not understanding a whim of it. He reaches gently into his dress pocket, probing until he finds the shells. Checking to see if they’re still there.

The glow from Moominhouse guides them the rest of the way. Mymble stops when she can hear the babble of the river underneath the bridge, not wanting to hear the sobs that threaten to overpower. 

“Is it…” Snufkin says feebly, hands gripping his bag’s straps. “Is it bad in there?” 

A beat.

“Whatever you think, it’s much worse.” Mymble looks at him, seeing the distress in his eyes. He looks toward the light, toward the veranda, towards the wheel barrel laying adjacent in the garden. 

He doesn’t know what he thinks.

“But I’ve stayed here long enough.” She takes off his hat and ruffles his hair before placing it back on his head. “Stay well, Snufkin.” 

Snufkin watches her disappear back into the forest with the glow of her lantern bobbing like a wisp lost in the woods. Then, his attention turns back to the house. There’s churning nausea in his stomach, little strength left in his legs. He doesn’t want to go in, but his feet make the unconscious effort to walk across the bridge. After a moment, he hears voices. Some small, some loud. But it all feels like cement in his ears. He stumbles onto the veranda, the steps creaking with each step.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself.” Little My sits on top of the railing. Snufkin’s eyes widen - he had never seen her hair down before. “Moomin loved you. He told me many’s the time. But those people don’t want anything to do with you. You know what would happen if you walked in that door?” Her head turns ever the slightly, her hair falling into her face. She makes no attempt to tuck the lock behind her ears, finding no use to do so.

Snufkin clicks his boots. “I have no choice. I must apologize to him.” He takes another step. My jumps down. 

“They’re plenty burned up. You go in there now - it will be suicide.” She ends her talk by placing herself in front of the door, arms crossed. 

Snufkin wants to fight this, to demand to see his friend and make amends. His eyes find the small window above the door, watching the patterns of colors dance. But then his mind wants to drift away once more, and this time, he lets it. He wipes a hand underneath his nose and finds flakes of dried blood. 

“Suppose you may be right. Everyone needs time to themselves,” his voice wavers. He wipes his dirtied hand on his dress. 

“Yes,” she replies uncomfortably. 

“Moomin…” his voice slips away. A ghost of a smile surfaces his face as a drip of spit falls helplessly from the corner of his mouth. My waits, watching him with mounting dismay. She could have persuaded herself that he is delirious, but he couldn’t be. Snufkin has always been of a stable mind, which is the horror of it all. 

In the few minutes it takes for Snufkin to return to his camping spot, the fear rolls off her face. My watches him throw his tent together, skipping his nightly coffee routine. She would sleep out on the veranda, with Mamma bringing her a blanket in the coming hours. She could never sleep in that bedroom again. 

Snufkin crawls inside his tent and lays flat on the earth, only his bag keeping his head propped. The world dims out until there’s nothing left but the humming inside his mind. 

As soon as his eyelids close, he gasps and jerks himself up. His brows eyes grow wide, the color disappearing from his cheeks. He lays in total darkness, no longer inside his tent. This must be in the forest; he can feel the cool grass between his feet. But there are no birds, no sounds of animals. Nothing. 

Then comes the same buzzing in his head. Far, far back in his mind, he can hear the faint whisper of a radio transmission. 

He’s terrified to the depths of his heart. There’s nothing to do but walk. 

At first, he sees nothing. His night vision doesn’t help matters in the slightest. But then it could have been twenty minutes, thirty, an hour, he doesn’t know but sees a small reflection of sunshine bouncing off some strange object. _Is it an object?_ It’s too far away to tell. The yellow glow grows as he continues. Then, the land starts to slope downward, the trunks of trees coming into view. It isn’t an object, rather, a circle of land where it seems the darkness hadn’t consumed it. Where flowers grow, birds chirp and grass grows green. He immediately feels the warmth of the sun on his feet when they cross the circle’s border. Suddenly, his fear floats away like a kite in the wind. His chest lightens, and a smile curves on his lips. 

At the very moment is entire body enters the sunlight, the music blows through his head at a deafening force. He screams and covers his ears, but it doesn’t help to muffle the sounds. The excruciating pain lasts no longer than thirty seconds, then it disappears like that. A trickle of blood drips from his nose and falls onto the grass, drop by drop. His hands slowly fall, head lifting. 

His eyes meet It then, standing beside the largest tree in the field with its leaves falling in the wind. 

He walks with tentative steps, looking at It as he goes. It isn’t human, starving itself in darkness. No, it’s something _wrong_.

Snufkin recognizes It, but at the same time, doesn’t. “Moomintroll,” he says, silent tears falling down his cheek. Its silhouette is large, a few inches taller than himself with a large snout. But in place of his silky, fluffy fur, is an all-consuming blackness, with a cloud of smoke rising from its form. 

It says nothing. 

“Moomin?” 

Then its voice comes through like a transistor radio, the kind he and Moomin would bring to the beach for lazy days spent soaking up the sun. “ _...GUILTY OVER ME...”_ The words don’t pour from Its mouth; it comes from Snufkin’s mind. His hands fly to his head, startled. Then a recording plays, “ _LET ME GET OVER YOU.”_

The voice is unmistakenly Moomin’s.

Snufkin drops his paws, smiling. He’s on his last raggedy end of exhaustion, but all he can see is Moomin standing before him. So he holds out a trembling paw in the air. “I’m here,” he croaks, “I’m never leaving you.” He falls forward, semi-conscience into Its arms. The figure holds him up effortlessly. “Never again.” 

Then, the most curious thing happens. It speaks with Moomin’s voice, but at different intervals of his life. Some words are hardly babbles, while others sound as if he spoke them yesterday. “ _INDIA TANGO. INDIA SIERRA. TANGO OSCAR OSCAR. LIMA ALFA TANGO ECHO.”_

“What was that?” he says louder than before, but even that little effort nearly exhausts him. His face is waxen, cheeks flushed. He looks into Its void with his feverish eyes, hoping for an answer, but receives none. “Oh, Moomintroll.” He rests his head against Its supposed chest, hearing no heartbeat. “What’s happened to you?” He lets the tears fall, eyes glittering. Then, his eyes slip shut, revealing the delicate purple stain of his eyelids, a clear representation of his exhaustion. When he opens his eyes again, he’s laying on the tent’s floor. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Two days pass. 

Papa couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. The townsfolk would find the ceremony nothing short of magnificent. There will be bells, bells playing a melody of hymns. The calls of the bells will be drawn out to every inch of the valley. And his eulogy, have been written and rewritten, would be preached and bring everyone to tears. (He’s that good of a writer, after all). His only hope is that _tramp_ doesn’t show - he wasn’t invited. 

Snorkmaiden fans herself. She wears a dark blue dress, the tag hiding under the pit of her arm. When she reaches the top of the hill, her head down the entire way, she checks her makeup with a pocket mirror. Her mascara is already running, why had she bothered. 

Mamma accepts another flower bouquet, this one from a tearful Ms. Fillyjonk. The mother’s eyes are tired, as expected. But not expected is the unfocused grief consuming her. She smiles, humming her son’s favorite lullaby as she arranges the mountain of flowers sitting next to his coffin. The coffin she wouldn’t look at. The coffin that couldn’t hold her son’s body, his entire life now sitting in a wooden box. That isn’t possible. Moomin can’t be dead.

Once everyone takes their seat, Papa walks down the middle aisle. There are sniffles, sobs, and red eyes throughout the hard, makeshift pews. Suddenly, his stomach makes an uneasy roll. But he must go on. Continue the impossible. 

He stops when he reaches the coffin, resting a paw on it. The folk sit, gripping their handkerchiefs, all their sober attention on the father. He turns his heel and the paper in his hands close to his face. The bells jangle discordantly. His palms sweat, the notes in his hands crumbling. _This isn’t right…None of this is…_

“We have gathered here today to celebrate the life of my son, Moomintroll,” he begins. Pappa pauses, a frown touches his face. “My son was taken from me.” There’s a small hitch in his delivery. His paws lower, no longer looking at the notes. 

Snorkmaiden takes Mamma’s hand and squeezes it. Mamma looks at her with her lidded eyes, whispering a cheerful, “My, my, aren’t the bells of the sweetest thing?” Snorkmaiden's eyes widen, a small expression of surprise and concern. She lets go of her hand, feeling suddenly frightened. 

“I dreamed of taking him on a voyage. Now he’s at the bottom of the ocean,” he finally finishes. Pappa has a sudden sickening premonition that he’s never going to see his son again. He leaves the speech hurriedly to dash around the corner, behind the mound of flowers to vomit what little he ate at the wake. 

Everything is so _wrong._

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin lights his pipe. The line whirrs as he casts his fishing pole. It smells of algae, with rotting leaves floating down its slow current. Two days he remained in his tent. He stayed laying on his back, staring at the leaf-dapped sunlight soaking through the thin fabric. The voices were so clear, it was almost _amusing._ It was if Moomintroll were trying to speak _something_ in his mind. And it was at night he would come most clearly, in body. 

He would laugh to himself, _you’re getting funny in the head._ They’ll take you, measure you for one of those canvas jackets you wear backward if you’re not careful. But then, Moomintroll comes and makes everything _perfect_ again. 

_“FOXTROT. UNIFORM. CHARLIE. KILO.”_ A pause. “ _YANKEE OSCAR UNIFORM.”_ Silly troll, he always knows what to say.

Perhaps the _only_ trouble with living alone is the abundance of these thoughts. Many hate to be alone because of this, their voices inside their minds would amplify. But Snufkin has learned to love this voice. As his rationality shrinks in this silence, the voices _demand_ his attention. And he would give it. It’s the only piece of Moomintroll he has left, and he’ll have to be ripped from his paws to lose him again. 

What really concerns him isn’t the speed at which all this occurred, it’s his _certainty._ Because he _knows_ that the person in his mind is Moomin, and he isn’t _gone._ He could never be gone. 

Snufkin throws his head back and watches the flash of liquid light wink through the miles of wood. The afternoon rain had given the landscape a sleek look that deepens its fall colors. A crunching of leaves causes him to cock his head, to find Moominmamma approaching. “Ah, there you are dear. I missed you at the party.” 

“Party?” Snufkin takes the pipe out of his mouth, turning his head to blow the smoke away from his guest. “Why, midsummer has passed. What’s the use of a party this time of year?” 

“Yes, well, Pappa decided to throw one together. As a way of saying goodbye, he said. Goodbye to fall and welcome to winter I suppose,” she speaks in such sweet clarity, as she always has. Snufkin always admired her, she’s like a ray of sunshine in a sea of unraveling clouds. “Anyhow, I was wondering if you would like to join us for dinner? I’ve made much too plenty for us, and the townsfolk have been ever generous with the casseroles…” 

Snufkin looks at his empty line. “Dinner would be nice.”


	4. you are the sunlight, I am the shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, I've been lacking inspiration. anyway, groke says hi. 
> 
> tw: bugs, maggots, blood

_Dinner._ When is the last time he had _that?_ Snufkin tries thinking, having thrown his fishing line not out of hunger but out of reiteration. And then Mamma had come, offering her life-line. 

She hums for the remainder of the journey back home, occasionally throwing a glance back to see if her guest follows. Snufkin stays a pace or two back, his stomach fluttering with fright, light-headedness rocking his core. Nerveless fingers play with the thin pole in his paw, trying anything to dim the inner voice in his head. 

For the first time since he could recall, no one greets him at the door. No eager thumping from overhead, brisk running downstairs - he’s only met with an empty living room. Mamma keeps the door open for her son’s friend, telling him to take off his boots by the door. He does as he’s told. 

The lights overhead pulsate, matching the throbbing pain hammering into his head. He raises an unsteady paw to his sweating forehead as Mamma continues onward to address the others. 

“There you are,” Pappa sighs, greeting Mamma with a tight embrace. “You said you were taking a short walk. How is an hour a _short_ walk?” 

“Oh, dear, you worry too much,” Mamma replies, hugging her husband back. 

“How can you say I worry too much when there was just a _landslide._ And there is a forecast of a storm yet! May I remind you-” Pappa pauses, seeing a familiar figure standing awkwardly in the living room. “What is _he_ doing here?” he scoffs softly, careful for the boy not to overhear. 

“Hm? Do you mean Snufkin? Well, we have so much food I figured he could use some. With winter approaching and all.” She turns and flashes Snufkin an over-gleaming smile, giving a small wave of the paw in the process. 

There’s a moment of silence, Snufkin returning the wave then finding interest in the stain on the carpet below him. Deliberately, Pappa coughs, forcing her attention back on him. “Bless you,” Pappa sighs, “Bless you and your kindness but I will not _stand_ for that…” _Murderer._ Is what he wanted to say. “... _Tramp_ to reside here.” 

“Hush now. What harm is _one_ meal?” She pats his shoulder, offering a kind smile before leaving him be. 

Snufkin looks up from the hushes of voices to meet the eyes of Moominpappa and shrinks himself. _If looks could kill._

In the dining room sits one guest - Snorkmaiden wears a black dress, her face is pallid and unforgiving. Snufkin surveys the glitter shimmering in the dim light, wondering where on earth she had found such lavish clothing. If one were to look closely, a tag could be seen dangling from the back of her neck. 

_Stolen._ Not because she needed it, no, for the simple act of _stealing._ If she were to act out, well, perhaps it would be a roundabout way of getting the attention she desired. Ruthless as it is. Snufkin would argue he stole only when completely necessary. Then again, he’d be lying if he didn’t get an adrenaline rush from doing so. Who is he to judge? Her dark eyes lay upon him like stones, sending a shudder down his spine. He quickly looks elsewhere, afraid she would pierce his soul with a blink. 

_Do you feel the same way I do? Do you? Do you? Do you?_

“...do you?” Mamma tries once more, holding out green bean casserole. “Do you want any?” 

“Oh.” Snufkin blinks. He wets his lips before replying with numb dismay, “Yes. Thank you, Mamma.” The voice in his head fads, fortunately. Their faces, once blank circles, focus until visible. Mamma takes Snufkin’s plate and adds a small portion of each onto it until the plate’s design is covered completely. He walks toward the chair, swaying noticeably. Everyone else had taken their seat, all three sitting on the opposite side of the table. 

Pappa scoops portions onto his plate, grumbling gently as he does so. Mamma looks at the empty chair sitting at the end, thinking her own thoughts - thoughts that had no train of thought to run. They derail mere seconds as they leave the station. _Moomin’s chair is empty. What to do with all those flowers? I should work on that quilt._

Snorkmaiden stabs a roll sitting in a wire basket, her eyes never leaving Snufin’s. It lands on her plate with the knife sticking straight out of it. Snufkin gulps. 

Breaking Snufkin’s attention, he hears a blowing of a snotrag from the floor above, Little My he presumes. For such a small body she could sneeze loud enough the house rattles. 

Better to not waste the gesture, or the food for that matter, Snufkin decides. He lifts the cold silver fork, eyeing latkes, rice pudding, bombay potatoes, and (of course) the green bean casserole - a symbol of the hodgepodge of cultures living in the valley. 

They eat, wide-eyed and silent. The only sounds are the clacking of dishes and silverware. 

Halfway through the plate, his stomach already bulges. Fork-full after fork-full he dishes into his mouth, nearly brought to tears when he felt the warmth of food hit his tongue. Just as he moves on to the casserole, he recoils, blinking - _what had he just ate?_ The texture didn’t match what it _ought to_. He brings the linen napkin to his mouth, spitting whatever hard lays on his tongue. 

A maggot. 

The dead insect stares at Snufkin as if it is marking him forever, eyes as large as pebbles. He closes the napkin and sets it in his lap, his trembling paws reaching for the glass of water. He no longer feels starved. 

“Tell me, Snufkin, when are you _leaving?”_ Snorkmaiden chippers much to eagerly to be genuine. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, pushing nausea down in his gut, “I haven’t thought much about it.” His face is as white as a wax candle, never taught how to deal with hysteria. 

“Hm. Well, I think the sooner the better! Don’t you?”

Snufkin peers up. “I…” He swallows hard, feeling a cold sense of guilt washing over him. Should he mention the fact he made a promise to stay?

“There’s nothing else here for you here,” she adds for him, her smile fading. 

“Hush,” Pappa instructs, giving her a wary eye. His paw clenches tight on the tablecloth, the other gripping his fork.

Snufkin, in the grip of a cyclone, freezes. Around and around he goes, no end in sight. Suppose walking out wouldn’t be the brightest of ideas, given the light patter of rain hitting the window. The lights of the room are too bright, the silent whispers of the Moomin family too deafening. There’s no worse cruelty than being chained in discomfort. 

“Oh, but don’t you think we should talk about it?” Snorkmaiden tries again after a moment’s breath. “I think someone _should_.” Her helpless anger rises in a red wave. 

Pappa sighs and lowers his silverware. He could really go for a smoke right now. 

“Let’s talk about _Moomin._ Yes, I said his name. And it’s about damn time someone did.” 

Snufkin cringes at the harsh language, his body closes in tighter. Thunder booms in the distance, just as it had that night.

“Oh, did you say Moomin?” Mamma blinks, her attention reeled in from the vast ocean it swam. “Where is he? Why isn’t he having dinner with us?” 

“I…” Snufkin speaks before realizing. The room is silent, Snorkmaiden's mouth a red slash of anger. “ I don’t know where he is.” His head pounds as the rain strengthens, the hiss of wind whirls through the home. 

“I’ll tell you where,” she hisses, “Moomin is in his _grave._ ” 

Lightning strikes. 

“W-What?” Snufkin stutters, eyes growing wide. _Grave?_ He hasn’t seen him since the time they slept underneath the moon, how could he had grown ill since then?

“End this!” Pappa roars loudly, his fist slamming into the table. “I said that’s _enough!”_

“You heard me!” Snorkmaiden dismisses him and stands, eyeing the weak excuse of a man before her. “He’s _dead!_ ” 

Snufkin’s head thudded, zaps hitting his brain like short circuits. The cries, screams all become a faint crackling sound as the ice of his mind shifts. Then, all at once, the glacier breaks with a crack running down its core. Out came Moomin’s voice, the rest booming faintly. 

_ATTENTION. ATTENTION._

“ _Moomin_ ?” Snufkin whispers, tears falling steadily into his open, quivering mouth. The fight continues - objects of random hitting him without causing a dent. “I’ve missed you! _Oh! I miss you so!_ ” 

“ _Stop_ !” she cries, hysteria lending her voice an incredible power. _“Stop already! He’s dead!”_

Snufkin doesn’t take his eyes from It, hypnotized. Although conscious, his mind is more of a grainy photograph than anything real. His sallow cheeks are wet with tears. Moomin is here, Moomin is _alive._ And, God, what a wonderful feeling.

“I wish I could take back your actions, but _you did what you did!_ You never apologize! You never own up to _shit! You_ hurt him, _you_ killed him! Say it! Say it! _You won’t!”_ her voice rises from deeper and deeper inside her. 

The evening sky through the windows turns emerald, the light dimming. Lightning booms in the distance as the wind now pummels the house, the rain nailing the window panes. The room nears black, with the lights overhead flickering on and off. Her words echo in his mind and he suddenly feels broken. 

Moomin is dead.

He sucks in his breath. “ _No…_ ” 

The room goes dark, the power shutting off. The shadowy figure of Moomin disappears. 

_“He’s gone…”_ Moomin had died that night. Boulders fell on his chest, puncturing his ribs, stabbing his heart. For the first time, Snufkin’s mind brushes the truth. The cruelty of what she said brought the fat tears to his eyes. He opens his mouth and lets everything out. The storm is loud, but Snufkin’s wailing is deafening. 

Moomin is dead. _Dead. Dead. Dead._ And he’s never coming back.

Mamma strikes a match and lights the wick of a lamp. Snufkin is soaked with tears, his face glitters with it. 

Snorkmaiden flinches. “Shut up!” She stares at his face glowing in the lamplight. “ _Shut up!”_ She grabs the roll on her plate and throws it at him. 

“Isn’t this just like old times?” Mamma smiles, hiding behind the facade of nostalgia. “Remember when Moomin would throw his food off his highchair?” 

Pappa cries silently, hiding his face for he’s a proud believer that one isn’t to cry in front of others. But he can’t stop. 

Snufkin continues like a child who has fallen off their bike as Snorkmaiden takes whatever is in paw’s reach, hurling at him. A sickness hits him, deeper than a thudding head. His stomach pits like a sponge filled with acid. A chain grows around his heart and yanks him down into utter depression. All he can do is cry. 

Forks, spoons, rolls, are all thrown his direction. At long last, she reaches for the plate, smashing it onto the floor. Everyone jumps with the impact - Snufkin’s jaw snapped shut so hard one could almost hear it. 

“ _Go away!_ ” Snorkmaiden shouts. “No one wants you here.” Her chest heaves, the next words a shaky whisper, “It should have been _you._ ” 

Snufkin feels his feet hit the floor, standing slowly. He sees Pappa with a drink in one hand, gulping away his sorrows. He sees Mamma continue eating a slice of cake as if nothing were the matter. Lastly, he sees Snorkmaiden's mouth compressed, her eyes glaring at him. He brushes his eyes with his sleeve, huffing one last sob from escaping.

Snufkin takes his leave slowly, one step at a time with his paws clutched to the side. He’s too unnerved to think about arguing, to think anything other than escape. When he leaves the home, after retrieving his bag, the last sound he hears is Snorkmadien’s rapid breathing and Pappa’s harsh sobs.

Rain still pitters down the gutters, trickling off the railing. Eyes wide and teary, he leaves the Moominhouse for the last time. Snorkmadien was right - there’s nothing left waiting for him there. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin lays on his side, his eyes and head burning with pain. One was from the tears, the other, well, he couldn’t quite explain. His boots are still on, muddy and soaked. He kicks them off, apathetically watching as they pile in the corner of his tent. 

The pain bolts in his mind so immense, all he can do is curl up and ride it out. Eventually, the pain recedes enough for his mind to fade in the gray mist that calls it. He embraces the darkness completely. He belongs to his dreams, and that is fine. 

Blackness. As he once dreamt. But then patches of light chip away at the darkness. All at once, a spotlight penetrates. He’s inside the tent, racked with shivers. _Why is it so cold? And bright?_

For a second, a premonition hits him. He doesn’t know of _what,_ but only feels a sudden sense of urgency. _Leave. Hurry. Find him._ He rises to his knees, crawling out of the tent. _When had he moved to the beach?_

Snufkin begins walking at a steady pace, walking towards the piercing light down the shoreline. Then the sand draws at his feet, clinging, pulling him down like a vine. The light does not seem to be drawing closer. His head races, thudding so hard his eyes pulsate against the grainy wind. 

After several minutes of running, his lungs burning, the light _finally_ breaks through its barrier. Closer it comes, his running slowing considerably. And there is Moomin, giving a wide, beautiful grin. Snufkin looks into its smile without a flench, memorized like a deer in headlights. 

“There you are,” he murmurs with an affectionate smile. His splayed digits reach out toward It. “Let’s go for a midnight swim together, you and me.” As he reaches out to touch It, to wrap himself around his beloved Moomin, the figure changes before his very eyes. His paw strikes something yielding, feeling like cool velvet, but burning like hot coal. _The Groke?!_

His hand shakes wildly, rolling all over the place. He grabs his forearm, watching as the blue tips of his paw trickle down to his palm. Pinching his arm as one would do with a snakebite, he attempts to stop the cold progressing. 

With slow and horrible deliberation, the Groke trudges forward, her yellow eyes never once blinking. 

“Stop,” Snufkin gasps, his breath fogging. He turns and looks at the rising sun - _red._ Red as blood, red as _Moomin’s blood._ Then the memory comes rushing back like a tidal wave. 

_Joxter bounces his son on his lap, watching as the sun rises._

_“Look at the sky, wild thing. You see that?” Joxter whispers for the rest of the house remains asleep. Snufkin nods, looking up at his father with wide, curious eyes. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.”_

_In the following week, the father leaves this dreadful home. His son would wake, whispering a quiet ‘Papa?’ as he sees his figure in the doorway, a bag swung over his shoulder. ‘Go back to bed,’ he’d reply, demanding rather than asking._

_It was morning when the little Snufkin saw the red moon._

_It was morning when his father left._

Like being rouse from a light rest, Snufkin blinks into consciousness. The coldness - it is the coldness that strikes him so strongly. His feet had stopped, sinking into the sand as he stares at the red sunlight spilling over the miles of shore. 

It’s at this time, as he’s staring at the perceptual beauty, that the radio transmission comes in full blast - scattering through his head. His paws fly to his temple, shrieking in terror. The volume is so loud, nearly unbearable. 

_“SIERRA INDIA NOVEMBER KILO. OSCAR ROMEO. SIERRA WHISKEY INDIA MIKE.”_

The Groke looms closer, _closer, closer._ Snufkin’s feet sink lower in the sand, falling deeper, _deeper, deeper._ The static pours into his ears, louder than his shrieking. 

He sticks out his paw, holding it as a shield as the Groke towers above him. His veins pop blue, rushing lower down his infected forearm. It feels as if he stuck a claw into a light socket, the cold burning him from the inside out. 

The sky is pure red, the ocean blood. Waves crash into the shore, leaving behind clumps of tissue as its shells. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

In his sleep, Snufkin shakes his head with mounting frenzy. His body shivers, spit drizzling helplessly from the corners of his mouth. All at once, he wakes, his body jerking himself to his knees. The terror slips away, fast gasping slowing his breath, fading the color from his cheeks. 

He swallows, wincing at the dry pain in his throat - _the screaming._ The sleep had been so deep it was close to a coma. _And so real._ The cold, _why is it so cold?_

“You’re awake,” he thinks to himself. To prove this, he crawls to the edge of the tent, lifting the flaps. The bright light of the first snowfall stream into his face, making him wince. He sees the members of the Moominhouse gather their outside decor, dragging the rocking chairs, picnic tables, inside for winter. Today they will spend wrapping the furniture, Mamma will complete her quilt. She will spread the heirloom over Moomin’s bed, to keep him warm. 

Snufkin’s smile drifts into a momentary expression of trouble and confusion. He doesn’t know what to do, what the next step is. His mind disconnects, his thoughts floating away once more. As his body separations from his mind, that familiar voice returns, telling him exactly what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should point out that the inspo behind the dinner fight is from the scene from Hereditary. u know the one


	5. of his bones are coral made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gore, injury, language, implied sexual content

When _It_ comes to Snufkin’s mind, the feeling of unreality settles back, the feeling that his mind would seep through his head and float to the clouds above. His vision doubles with every other step, causing him to wipe his sleeve across his face. Where is he headed? He doesn’t know. All he knows is to follow the voice in his mind, the voice of _It._ And all will be well. 

Snufkin has to walk slowly because no matter how many times he wipes his eyes, his vision breaks into prisms, like looking through a kaleidoscope. A small patch of sweat forms at his temple, despite it being frigidly cold outside. 

_WHISKEY ALPHA ROMEO MIKE ECHO ROMEO...._

A troubled frown surfaces on his face, looking exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion that can be ridden with one night’s sleep, _no_ , this exhaustion goes bone-deep.

Snufkin pushes away a twig with a paw that trembles slightly, making the branch quiver momentarily. Up and up he went, the voices becoming clearer, the static erasing itself. 

_WHISKEY ALPHA ROMEO MIKE ECHO ROMEO...._

Around thirty minutes later, the dark, snow-filled clouds breakaway in the west. Snufkin stops at the top of the hill, looking at the sunlight spilling across the rolling miles of bare woods. As soon as the voices left, _music_ bursts in his mind, clear as day. _Bells! Chimes!_ Gorgeous sounds match the landscape in its ethereal beauty. 

_HOTEL OSCAR TANGO!_

_And there he is._

Snufkin feels a child’s simple awe, wonder. The light strikes him so strongly, warming him from the inside out. Moomin’s grave sits at the edge of the cliff, where the family held their midsummer celebrations. Feet guide him past the rows and rows of flowers, now wilting away in the harsh winter air. Sitting at the head of the grave ruffles fake roses, the only thing _alive_ left on the clifftop. 

_In Loving Memory,_

_Dear Moomintroll._

_1939-1957_

Snufkin stands over the stone, paws feeling the ridges of the engravings. Surprisingly, he consciously sees the words, the meaning behind them. _Dear Moomintroll,_ he is dear, isn’t he? With his paws deep in his pockets, he pulls out the handful of shells his _dear_ Moomintroll had gifted him. A smile curves his lips. It isn’t the shells that were a gift, Moomin himself was the gift. The _loving_ memories he had with the troll. 

He gets on his knees, snow crunching underneath his weight, and turns his palm. The shells fall one by one. But he needs a gift of his _own_ to give. The idea comes easily as if there is no question.

The silver harmonica reaches his lips to play the first, last, _only_ winter tune he would ever play -

_Those are the pearls that were his eyes;_

(The Groke follows her heart in the pursuit of love.)

_Nothing of him that does fade,_

(The light feels so _warm._ She chases the fleeting feeling in a field of daffodils.)

_But doth suffer a sea-change_

(But never does she grasp the love, the light. It is always an arm’s length away.)

_Into something rich and strange._

(If she were to lose this light, she would lose her will to live. So she chases. Chases what will never be hers.)

_Sea-nymphs hourly ring his kneel:_

The bells strike with a sudden gust of wind. Snufkin startles at the sound, blinks, and looks down at his harmonica. He hadn’t known the song he just played. The lyrics ran through his mind, the melody playing effortlessly. He hesitates, his head pounding miserably, before setting the harmonica down beside the shells - his final offering. 

When he stands, it feels like stepping on stilts. His knees buckle, feet digging into the snow. He stares longingly at the ocean, the salty air filling his lungs. The cliff’s edge points in its direction like a compass. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Too-Tickey wakes with a sore in her back, making her wince. She had fallen asleep on the rocking chair, again. _Coffee and aspirin,_ she decides.

The bright morning sun streams through the frail curtain as she fills the kettle with water from the sink. She left the faucet trickling so the pipes wouldn’t burst overnight.

_Drip...drip...drip..._ all night long. Enough to drive someone insane. (If they didn’t have a sound mind on their head, that is).

She stares aimlessly out the window, at the hypnotic ocean and her treacherous waves crashing into the snowy shore. The water overflows within the kettle, drowning itself in the sink. A series of bangs coming from the door interrupts her concentration, she hastily shuts the water off. _“I hear ya!”_ she calls, drying her hands on her pants. 

As soon as the door opens, a pit forms in her stomach. 

“I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this,” Mymble Jr. begins softly, a ghost of a smile on her lips out of politeness. 

Too-Tickey feels a suffocating fear watching her, a face that normally holds such beauty is nearly unrecognizable. She looks so deeply broken, emotionally-drained that she gives a good impression of a corpse. Bags underneath her eyes, rumpled clothing, speaking as if every word is a punch to the gut. “O’ course I don’t mind,” Too-Tickey decides on suddenly, snapping out of the trance, “A've missed seeing that face.” 

Mymble smiles, seeing that she hasn’t changed a bit. It’s comforting to having something _stable_ for once - something she can count on. “May I come in?” she asks while rubbing her bloodshot eyes.

“I haven’t turned you awa’ yet, have I?” Too Tickey leaves her to take off her coat to put the kettle on the stove. 

With a deep sigh, Mymble sits at the small kitchen table, grabbing a linen napkin to place on her lap. “Mother is almost here.”

“Oh?” Too Tickey hums, striking a match. 

Mymble reflects on all that she must do in the following days, months, _years_ \- as much as she _can_ reflect in this current state of confusion. It all falls on her shoulders. As it _always_ had, being the eldest. 

“An’ how are you holding up?” Too-Tickey sits on the opposite side of the table, resting her head on her palm. 

Mymble blinks. How _is_ she holding up? She thinks for a long moment, seemingly forgetting the question halfway in. “I…” she swallows, “don’t know. Is that bad?” 

She shrugs. “Ah just hope ye aren't overwhelming yersel'.”

“There’s just so much to be done,” she laughs, tears swelling in her eyes. “Never time to catch your breath.” 

Too Tickey leans back in her chair, smile fading. 

_So much to do, so very much._ “And then, then, there’s _Mother_ , she’ll need hel-help with the children. And, and, _My_ , by Groke, Little My, she’s, she’s been through _hell-”_ Mymble’s words come out quicker and quicker until they trip over one another. Too-Tickey looks on with alarm, realizing soon she’s either going to yell or cry soon. Which she dreads worse, she doesn’t know. 

Too-Tickey reaches across the table, grabbing her trembling hand with a comforting squeeze. Mymble’s mouth snaps shut. “And about you? Who is going to tak’ care of you?” Her eyes nearly pleading. 

Mymble sighs, her shoulders relaxing visibly. After a pause to recollect herself, she replies, “What about me?” Too-Tickey’s brows furrow, causing her to fix, “No, no I mean, I can take care of myself. There are people that need me. I…” she pauses, “I have no choice.” She looks down, eyes fixating on the napkin on her lap. 

Too-Tickey rubs the bony knuckles with her thumb. “It’s okay to ask for hulp.’ It doesn't mak' you weak.” She squeezes her hand. “Ye'r the strongest person I know. Nothin’ will change that.” 

Mymble’s innocent blue eyes dart up, meeting Too-Tickey. 

Too-Tickey whispers low and exceedingly calm, “Let me tak’ care of you.”

Unavailing tears fall from Mymble’s chin, splattering onto the napkin. “I’d like that,” she replies, “I’d like that a lot.” They share a smile, a smile of uncertainty. But knowing they could rely on each other, it makes the future less daunting. “Actually, could I take you up on that offer?” she sniffles. 

Too Tickey raises a brow. 

“It’s Snufkin, I’m worried about him.” 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

A wave of dizziness washes through Snufkin yet again. As if that winter tune took all the air from his lungs. Falling on on his knees, he raises his paw with great effort to let it rest on the tombstone. He brushes away his sweaty hair from his cold eyes, locking it behind his ear. 

“Remember the promise I made?” he says softly, “I intend on keeping it.” He smiles without humor before passing out - snow flying as he falls on his side. 

_The curtain pulls aside._

Snufkin’s senses waver. He groans, head turning from side to side. Loud noises erupt, unable to discern exactly _what_ they are. Blink by blink, the obnoxious colors of the stage props form shapes, the cheering from the audience becomes recognizable. He sits in a dark theater, surrounded by large, faceless guests. They wear masks, some smiling, some frowning - some with only slits for eyes. 

Something touches his paw then - something cold. His eyes lift. Sitting beside him is the figure of Moomintroll, except the shadow from his dreams. Despite not having a face, despite the static in place of his fur, he looks unbelievably like his friend. Snufkin feels an instant wave of affection sweep over his heart. With a large smile, he rests his head on _It’s_ shoulder, acting like a conch shell for he can _almost_ hear waves crashing into the shore. Strange, as it were. 

The lights fade, as well as the clapping. Brilliant white light pours out from the spotlight and onto the stage. His eyes open to find a small shadow box sitting center stage. The kind you would expect a poor creature to dance beside, metal cup in paw, begging for their next meal. 

The crank on its side turns on its own. As the music starts, a pair of wooden puppets bounce down. One Moomin shaped, and the other, well, _Snufkin -_ both made out of love with delicately made clothing. His puppet wears a small felt hat, with feathers sticking out as well as his _notorious_ green dress (the _real_ dress was set ablaze by the Police Inspector, smelling much too like a corpse to ever be worn again). He laughs at the sight, and so does the audience. And the scene rushes back into his memory like a hurricane inside his head. 

_It’s the comet._ Snufkin’s puppet sits next to a small campfire, a paper mache comet rushing by in the backdrop. Moomin comes bouncing in, the string lifting to make the puppet wave. 

Snufkin squeezes _It’s_ hand, smiling wider than he had in weeks. _It_ doesn’t react (having no eyes doesn’t help matters). The small curtain falls once more, pooling like velvet, before swooping back up again. The scene has changed entirely - a yellow crescent moon glows, outlining the shape of the bridge, Snufkin and Moomin sitting on the railing, their small wooden legs dangling. 

In Snufkin’s hands is a small pipe, _pop pop pop!_ Bubbles come out one by one and dance in the air, before bursting in a colorful explosion. He laughs once more, his nose crinkling and feet pattering on the floor like raindrops. 

_“...Jerks me around…”_

He stops laughing. Someone had _spoken._ He turns in his seat, looking back at the rows and rows of blank faces. Maybe it had been his imagination? He slowly twists back in his chair, eyeing the _thing_ next to him with large, curious eyes. _It couldn’t have been-?_

The scene changes. 

The puppets are now silhouettes, seemingly inside the tent now sitting middle of the platform. A small light flickers inside. Moomin’s puppet seems to be arguing with Snufkin. Then, it stands. He leaves the tent while Snufkin holds his arm out. A beat, then it falls. 

_“…I’m just...his puppet…”_

The voice comes again. Before he has time to question its origins, something _horrific_ happens onstage. 

_Drip...drip...drip…_

Something is falling off the mini-theatre like a faucet, something _red._ Something is wrong here, something is _off-key._

Snufkin’s face tightens into an expression of fright, disgust. Not just at the scene, the scene Moomin had confused his love. To which Snufkin had _ignored._ Pushed away like all his other troubles. Leaving Moomin with the wound to bear.

The tone is _all wrong._ Why is the audience laughing? _Why?! This isn’t funny!_ Blood now seeps from the theatre, pooling into the floor. _Fuck,_ he needs to get out of here. He yanks his paw harder to no avail. _It’s_ claws dig into his forearm, leaving behind deep, jagged slices. 

“Let me go!” he cries, panicking tears falling down his cheek. He pulls with all his might, the claws dragging like chalk on a chalkboard. Blood splashes at his feet, the waterfall onstage still spouting, occasionally clogging with mysterious fragments. “ _Moomin-_!” 

_It_ moves suddenly, _I_ _t’s_ paw now down to his wrist, with a simple _twist._ The snap echoed throughout the theatre’s walls. 

At first, there is no reaction, only eyes that are similar to vacant windows. Then comes the _screaming._ He falls flat on his knees, holding the limp arm with the other, shrieking loud enough the people in the balcony heads could split in two (if they had heads). 

When sudden terror, he realizes _he needs to get the fuck out._ So he stands, still holding onto his injured arm, eyes glued on the figure of _It._ He doesn’t see Moomintroll anymore. That _couldn’t_ be him. Moomin couldn’t hate him enough to break his arm, _could he?_ He takes a step back, blood splashing onto his dress - then another, then another, till he turns in a maddening sprint. The audience laughs as he passes, seemingly taking humor in his panic, his pain. With every step, it grinds the splintering ends of his broken bone. 

Down the aisle he runs, the blood now seeping to his ankles. He trudges through, trying anything to not _think_ of whatever he is touching down there. _The flaps of skin swimming like piranhas._

He paws at the large double doors, pulling the silver hands with whatever energy he has left. That is, all that he can manage with one paw, the other uselessly spazzing. Every hair on his body stands on its end, eyes bulging wide. The blood is now to his waist. The crowd doesn’t seem to mind that they’re drowning, unfazed by the fact. Their laughter gurgling as the blood rises above their mouth, eyes.

Then, he hears it. His head snaps around at the sound of sloshing, _someone is approaching him._ His back meets the door with no place to go. _It_ nonchalantly wanders toward him, black smoke rising from its form. Snufkin quivers, the blood surging slowly but steadily. 

_It’s_ hand reaches Snufkin’s cheek. He winces, expecting the worse, with his eyes glittering with fear. That _It_ would snap his tiny neck at any instant, with a simple _twist_ as he had broken his hand. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the exact moment _It_ would turn.

But it doesn’t come. 

Snufkin looks at where the eyes _should_ be. His entire body trembles, but _It’s_ hand remains still on his cheek. His gaze wavers then falls. He bursts into loud sobs, leaning his hot face onto _It’s_ shoulder, still standing firm. The fear dissipates, with that comes tremendous _guilt._

“ _I’m sorry_ !” Snufkin cries out in sobs. “I knew what pain I was putting you through and I kept doing it, I’m sorry - _so sorry._ I was just _afraid._ I’ve never _loved_ , Moomintroll, never been _loved,_ but I _loved_ you.” _It’s_ hand wraps around his head, pulling him even closer. Snufkin whispers, voice hiccuping, “I know that now - _I love you._ I always have. _”_

The blood rises above their shoulders in the minutes that come but he doesn’t feel fear - only _happiness,_ relief. And he lets that feeling wash over him.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Too Tickey sighs before inhaling a puff of smoke, then blowing gradually. She saturates in the comforting scent, the burning in her throat. She isn’t one to smoke on the regular, saving it for special occasions and celebrations. And given the woman lying beside her in bed, this calls for one _hell_ of a smoke. 

Mymble’s ruby hair lays like tranquil waves on the pillow. If it wasn’t for her chest rising and falling ever so often, she would look like a porcelain doll. Too Tickey tucks away a loose strand of hair behind her ears, allowing her a better view. Her face looks at peace, knowing that everything would be resolved. She _wouldn’t_ have to go with her mother, she could be her own person, - _at last._ Too Tickey will do anything to protect that wonderful face, to shield her from all of life’s horror. Any more than she _hasn’t_ seen, that is. 

After putting out the cigarette on the glass ashtray on the nightstand, she turns to kiss the curve of her ear. Mymble smiles in her sleep, relishing the hot breath that tickles her skin. Too Tickey gets out of the creaking bed, finding her clothes piled at the edge, as they were thrown about without much care where they ended up. 

“A’m off to get Snufkin,” she says out loud as she steps into her pants, unaware if her guest hears her. They had decided on letting the lad stay with them, _heal_ with them. And that gave his sister such profound _relief._ Knowing that _everything would be okay._ Taking care of Snufkin is a small price to pay to see that wonderful smile of hers. 

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Snufkin wakes hours later. 

A galaxy of stars lays above him, casting down their heavingly glow. His eyes are dark, his movements wary. He attempts to process information but is found with no tangible conclusion. The answer is before his very eyes, hadn’t Moomin _just_ told him what to do? 

_Yes_. 

For a numb minute or two, he doesn’t hear the Groke down below the cliff, right outside the bathhouse. It takes all his mental capacity to _stand_ , let alone _process_ what is around him. 

Too Tickey extinguishes the flame in her lantern, knowing all too well what the chill in the wind meant. She squints until she can see the familiar, slow-moving figure of the Groke - expecting her to be halfway down the rickety deck by now. But away she strides, down the shore to _who-knows-where._ She shrugs, taking it as dumb luck she would avoid a run-in with her tonight. 

Once a good ways away from the beach, she re-lights her lantern, careful not to trip on any overgrown roots on her short trip to the Moominhouse. The same house that had such _life_ sits isolated and alone. It is always odd around winter, seeing the house dark, but knowing there would be one less member hibernating this year, it sends chills down her spine. 

And there she finds Snufkin’s tent where it always resided. She sighs a breath of relief, seeing that he hasn’t packed up and left just quite yet. But when she lifts the flaps, she finds the tent empty. _Odd_. 

She isn’t _too_ worried, though, seeing that Snufkin wouldn’t leave anywhere without it. She sets down the lantern to pack up the tent, whistling quietly as she works. 

The tide is coming in. 

After coming down the cliff in which he came, Snufkin drifts toward the beach, suddenly guided by the voice in his mind. It _calls_ him. It had told him what to do, so he must do it. He passes the bathhouse, smoke rising from its chimney. Greeny darkness succumbs to the evening sky. It’s so frigidly cold, his teeth chattering as he walks. 

The Groke calls out to the green light over the horizon. The light she doesn’t know belongs to a house sitting on top of a turtle, still miles and miles away. Her voice is harsh and whispery, like chains scraping across a tile floor. She steps onto the ocean, ice cracking as bright and clear as lightning underneath her. As she treks further into the darkness, toward her only sense of warmth, waves crash into her. They freeze mid-air, shattering like glass as she continues forward. 

The singing coming from the ocean overpowers the voice in Snufkin’s mind. _Or were they the same?_ Perhaps that is _Moomintroll_ calling out to him, to be _reunited._ Yes! That _must be it!_ Snufkin smiles sunnily, feeling a burst of warmth in his heart. He hurriedly unties his boots, hands jittering with excitement. 

Too Tickey finishes rolling the tent, throwing his bag over her shoulder. She stops before leaving, seeing a small red figure sitting on the veranda. She’s met with a weary lack of surprise, suppose Little My is waiting on her mother. Strange, considering she wouldn’t be arriving till morning, perhaps afternoon. She starts back down the trail, waving off with her free hand, lantern in other, not putting much thought into it. 

Snufkin takes his first step into the depth. The pain shoots up his leg like fire. He shivers, biting his lip so hard it bleeds. Then another step. Hundreds of needles stab his feet. He steadies himself, slowing his heartbeat for Moomin is waiting for him, _calling_ for him. Electricity wires through his spine as he ventures into the arctic water _further, further._

The water is to Snufkin’s waist. The chilling punch of the waves means nothing _._ His lips are blue, his shivering becoming _shaking_. He can no longer feel his legs, which is a blessing as much as it is a curse. “I’m - I’m, coming _._ Moom - Moomin - tro - troll,” he manages. Moomin sings out a note just for him, to encourage him to continue, that’s he’s doing so _good._ Just a little longer. And we’ll be _together. Forever_. 

The Groke had cried out. The green light bobbing in the distance is much further than she expected. Like a distant firefly dancing alone in the night. 

The bag falls onto the sand beside the dock. Too Tickey claps her hands, brushing off the dust and snow. Half of her expected to find Snufkin down here, but the bath house’s lights remain off. She bends to retrieve the lantern she had set down, to find a print. The Groke never left prints, let alone _boot_ prints. So her intuitions _were_ correct - Snufkin _is_ down here. Doing _what?_ She sets off down the shoreline, calling his name. Fear bubbles inside her, hoping that the Groke wouldn’t find him before she does. 

Snufkin’s arms open wide, letting the large tide wash over him, stripping away everything that he has become. He laughs widely, all that he can muster with his energy draining by the second. He _will_ keep his promise! With that comes a feeling of infinite comfort. To know that he’s going _home. Home_ to the one he cannot live without - _Moomintroll!_

Too Tickey drops the lantern when she finds the boots neatly placed, his socks tucked inside. 

Snufkin thinks clearly for the first time in a _long time._ No static, no cryptic codes - only the sound of Moomintroll calling to him. And not some _monster_ with a mask of his friend, no, _this is Moomintroll!_ He has his hands out, waiting for Snufkin. 

Before her lays two options. One will cause infinite heartache to her love, the other would not. 

There will be a large fire that night. Mymble will come out in her robe with a curious smile. Too Tickey will tell her to go back inside, as she watches the green tent turn into ashes. As well as the rest of his belongings. 

Snufkin no longer feels pain. His vision fades in and out, but his smile never _fades_. Like his love for Moomintroll, it had never _faded_. Not once, not ever. 

He trudges _further, further._

_Until_ he and Moomintroll will be reunited. 

_Until_ he can confess _his_ love as the troll did that night. 

_Until_ he becomes just a drop in the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it! this has been a long time coming!! I planned this about three months back, with pages of pages of notes. it may not look it, but I researched different ways of grief and tried to give every character something different.
> 
> and yeah I worked my way backward and had this ending in mind since the start. I know how much snuf loves the ocean, so I was like, hmm... wouldn't it be TERRIBLE if something were to happen to him IN THE OCEAN? I know, brilliant. I wonder if any of you got the hints?? I once thought it was TOO obvious but maybe that was just me bc I know what's going to happen. snuf literally says what's going to happen in the first chapter HAHA. like 'Her singing calls us into her depths, to drown us in her magnificence' except like, it ain't the ocean he's talking bout but the Groke. JKLDASDAS groke is magnificent tho. also felt bad bout the name. bc 'drop in your ocean' KINDAAA gives it away but oh well. hopefully it didn't give it COMPLETELY away. there's more hints spread throughout but yeah
> 
> before I go I wanna brag and say this is my first completed fic!! what!! 'how could you have been writing fics for like 6 years AND NOT FINISH ONE' well bro idk. I didn't count one shots btw. I've written horror before and ended up deleting bc lack of kudos and shit. So I kinda stayed away from horror bc of the lack of popularity, even though it's what I LOVE. I want to say I don't do this for the kudos, but that would be lying. it's like posting your drawings and getting like,, 2 likes. it's disheartening and it makes you want to give up. I came into this expecting less kudos but lemme tell you, it was hard to get inspired. the comments kept me writing!! I cannot tell you enough how important they are ;-;
> 
> authors kinda stray away from talking about kudo count and I get why. but I'll tell you now there's some INCREDIBLE writers here in the moomin fandom getting overlooked. and I'm not talking about me here. they're close to giving up, and I was too. all I'm saying is if you want more content, support the content being published. read shit that isn't posted by your three fav authors. branch out my dudes. otherwise we're gone

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All The World's Seas, There in Your Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817403) by [99griffon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/99griffon/pseuds/99griffon)




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